


Lie Down with Dogs

by dyingpoet



Series: Sprace one shots [19]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 07:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15967490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dyingpoet/pseuds/dyingpoet
Summary: It thunderstorms in Brooklyn and Race doesn't feel like walking back to Manhattan





	Lie Down with Dogs

**Author's Note:**

> Haven't written in like a month but I got into college and might be writing for a newspaper soon so??? Sorry not sorry lmao

A peal of thunder sounded like a shot from above the track; horses were being moved off, jockeys were making their way back to the stables, and the few spectators who’d dared to come out on a day like today ran for cover. Not so brave now, eh?

Racetrack let out a low whistle and looked up as lighting streaked across the sky. It hadn’t rained in ages, this was long overdue. But, selling didn’t stop for anything.

A guy, looked like a deadbeat if Race ever saw one, stumbled in from the rain and ran a hand through his soaking hair. Rushing a couple steps forward, Race darted into his eyeline and held up a paper.

“Buy a pape, sir?” he asked. Truth be told, the guy looked like he’d drawn the short straw at the ticket counter, and he wouldn’t put it past him to try and get Race’s money off of him. It’d happened plenty of times before. 

The guy looked Race over for a few seconds before pulling a smoke out of his jacket pocket. “It gonna tell me the weather for today? Sunny without a cloud in the sky, that right?”

He held the smoke out to Race, nodding when Race’s hand faltered before reaching out. 

Putting the smoke between his lips, Race pulled his matchbox out from where he’d stashed it in his pocket the night before; Les had been getting cute with lighting them and he didn’t want to come back and find the lodging house burnt down. 

He lit it though, and inhaled slowly, eyeing the guy in front of him while he dug into a coin sack he’d tied to his belt. Exhaling, he brought the cigarette down, and held up the pape in his other hand. 

“Keep the change, kid.” The guy flicked him a nickel and walked off before Race could thank him for the smoke or the money.

“Talk about a’ wack,” he mumbled under his breath. Whatever, he could deal with a guy like that if he was giving him money and smokes, especially when he still had around twenty papes left and only about six or seven people still hanging around the track. Normally he’d clear out when the last race ended, but too many people were soaked through and out betting money to throw a penny away on a pape. 

In fact, they must have been out a lot of money, because the next guy Race tried to sell to shoulder checked him roughly and sent the rest of his papers flying to the floor. The wet floor, at that. 

“Watch where you’re goin’ next time.”

The smell of whiskey followed the man as he left, and Race felt his stomach growl. He wouldn’t have enough for the lodging fee and something to eat without those last twenty. “Go ta’ hell, pal.”

He turned to scout out the other side of the track for stragglers when a hand grabbed his collar and spun him back around. 

The guy’s face came into focus, he five o’clock shadow and swollen cheeks underneath dark, hanging bags beneath his eyes. 

“What did you say ta’ me ya little shit?”

Race struggled to get an inch back, the breath on his face smelled like old cigar smoke and alcohol. “I said-”

A fist moved forward and he heard a loud shot ringing in his head. Blood was on the ground and so was he, pain and heat spreading from his cheekbone down to his jaw. Footsteps echoed disjointedly away from him and he tried to shout out a ‘fuck you’ after the guy, but it just came out gurgled and messy. 

“Motherfucka’,” he gritted out after a moment. Tentatively he touched at the bleeding spot on his face and cursed. The guy must’ve been wearing a ring, the thing was split open. 

And all of his papes were soaked. And the rain had picked up. And it really didn’t look like it was gonna be slowing down any time soon. God could have really just sent a brick down that had ‘screw Racetrack Higgins’ scrawled on the front and thrown it at him, it’d practically be the same as what he was doing now. 

It didn’t take much time to decide he’d be sleeping at the track, the whole trip back to the lodging house was two miles, and in a downpour he’d be lucky to not catch pneumonia, or get swept off the bridge. Jack’d know he slept here too, plenty of other times he’d had to to the same thing, as as he got back to circulation nobody would be losing their heads. 

Did that make the fact that he’d be crashing on the wet concrete for the night, hungry, any better? Not really. Did his face feel like someone had held him down and slashed him with a rusty knife? Hell yes. 

But, after another five or so minutes sitting on the ground hating his life, Race pulled himself up and started for his usual sleeping spot. 

Another five and he was curled with his back against a heating vent, hat lying over the gash on his face to keep it somewhat clean. 

Ten after that we was nearly out.

Two seconds after  _ that  _ a boot nudged him in the ribs and he was swinging blindly upward before he could put a thought together.

“Get offa me-” 

He connected with something and whoever was standing above him grunted, almost familiarly, and sank down to his level, catching his next fist. “Jesus Race ‘s just me.”

Spot Conlon sat a couple inches away from him, hair soaked from the rain, half gripping the part of his thigh Race had managed to hit, and looking like he oughta be soaking that drunk bastard. 

“Spot? What the hell are ya doin’ at the track?” He shook out his wrist when Spot dropped it and shifted to sit back on his heels, knees drawn up to his chin. 

“Could ask ya the same thing, ain’t you supposed to be back in ‘hattan? ‘S past seven,” Spot asked slowly. His eyes wandered back to that Spot on Race’s face and slitted the slightest bit. “Who knocked ya one?”

Race flinched when Spot reached out to poke at the wound on his face, and covered it up a bit more with his hand. “Didn’t wanna walk back in the rain, ‘m spendin’ the night.”

“And?”

“ _ And _ ,” Race continued, with a much longer than necessary deep breath, “it was just some drunk, he ran into me and I mouthed off, shoulda’ known better.”

Spot nodded slowly, tension fizzling off him in waves. Race could practically see him catalogging every guy he’d seen walk out of the track, poor sucker was doomed if Spot found him. 

“Why ain’t you come back to the Brooklyn lodging?” Spot asked, “Ya know I’d give ya a bunk for the night.”

His tone softened for a beat, and normally Race would have jeered and called him out on it, but again, god was out to get him and he wasn’t really up for sarcasm. Besides, Race could remember a time the two of them had shared a bunk and Spot had been  _ soft _ . You don’t always have to ruin things. 

“Didn’t wanna get wet, ‘s four blocks to Brooklyn lodging, gettin’ sick ain’t worth it.”

Spot hummed low in his throat and Race shifted his gaze down to floor after a few seconds of silence. It felt weird being stared at like that, especially by the King of Brooklyn, not like the  _ other,  _ much more  _ private _ times he’d caught him staring. 

“So, uh, I’ll see ya later then I guess-”

Spot snorted and kicked lightly at Race’s leg before he could finish. “I ain’t leavin’ ya here alone, dumbass.”

“Well there’s no way I’m goin’ four block out there in the rain,” Race snapped back, bristling just a little more than normal from the comment. “And I ain’t shackin’ up with some kid you send over.”

An eye roll and Spot was stretching out against the heater with a yawn, eyes glinting at Race’s shocked face mischievously.

It took a second or two to shake himself out of that little bit of shock, but Race quickly knitted his eyebrows into a frown and shoved Spot. “Well ya ain’t takin’ up the whole heater then.”

“Yeah, yeah, whateva’ ya say, Racer.”

A few minutes of shuffling an cursing later, they ended weirdly curled up, Race’s legs tangled with Spot’s, his head underneath the crook of his neck, arms fighting Spot’s for space next to the heater. 

“Comfy, princess?” Spot grumbled airily. The words sent vibrations through his chest and Race leaned in, earning a snort from above. “You’re such a sap, Higgins.”

“I ain’t the one who walked four blocks just to sleep on the ground.”

“Shut it.”

With a soft sound of triumph, Race did just that, and moved to lay on his side, head resting on Spot’s shoulder. There was definitely a soft insult from the owner of said shoulder, but Race was too far gone to care

The position was comfortable, and memories of nights spend curled up just like that, in a warmer bed, surfaced slowly. The burning in his face was ebbing away too, and the heat from the vent and Spot combined was lulling him to sleep. 

Just as that was becoming a reality, an arm moved to pull him in closer and Spot’s chest rumbled against his head, words coming to him softly and slowly, to slowly for him to ask what they were. 

The ghost of a kiss being pressed to his hair was the last thing he felt before exhaustion dragged him under.

* * *

 

A loud caw sounded from above Race’s right ear and he swatted in the general direction, the sound of beating wings a makeshift alarm clock. The sunlight stung his eyes, and even with them shielded for a few seconds he could tell the rain was gone.

He could also tell Spot was gone, at least for now. There was no way he’d let anyone find the two of them like that, and even though nobody had filtered into the track yet, he’d probably left a while ago. 

“Smart guy,” he mumbled, staggering to a stand. He’d have to get back to Manhattan quick so he didn’t get screwed on papes, if he was half as smart as Spot he would’ve gotten up early as hell too.

As he got up and started for the gate though, his rush was subdued. He wondered what Spot had said the night before, right as he fell asleep. The timing was probably intentional, Spot never said anything to Race that could be used against him unless he was sleeping or drunk. He knew this from the few times he’d woken up with a crick on his neck or a hangover with words like that still on the surface.

Shaking his head, he picked up the pace and walked out into the sunlight, sounds of the city flooding his ears like birdsong. It didn’t quite matter anyway, he’d get to hear whatever had been said another time; it had to rain again eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope you guys enjoyed this!! 
> 
> I'm really busy irl right now so kudos and comments are my motivations to write more on here, so if you can hmu I'd really appreciate it!!


End file.
